“I have no wish to play the mysterious; my name is Stockham Calvert.”
It was Alvin’s turn to smile, while Chester said meaningly:
“That tells us mighty little.”
“I am one of Pinkerton’s detectives.”
The listeners started. They had never dreamed of anything of this nature, and remained silent until he should say more.
“You are aware,” continued the mild spoken caller, “that there have been a number of post office robberies in the southern part of Maine during the last six months and even longer ago than that.”
The boys nodded.
“A professional detective doesn’t know his business when he proclaims his purpose to the world. He does so in the story books, but would be a fool to be so imprudent in actual life. Consequently you will think it strange for me to take you into my confidence.”
“I don’t doubt you have an explanation to give,” suggested Alvin.
“I have and it is this. Without any purpose or thought on your part you have become mixed up in the business. The other night you gave me great help, though the fact never entered your minds at the time. You located their boat in a small inlet at the southern extremity of Barter Island.”